


This Time

by Deannie



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Character Death Fix, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-30
Updated: 2002-05-30
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:16:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years ago, one man's death ended the Ghostbusters. Only genius and guilt can bring you back from that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There's a part of me that's always going to wonder what would have happened if he'd lived. 

It's the same part that wonders what life would be like if Charlie wasn't my dad--Masochist Pete, I call that part. 

It doesn't matter what might have happened. He's still dead. Five years ago, tomorrow, I lost a best friend--well, three, really. I mean, Winston and I still talk, I still do the occasional job for the new Ghostbusters crew he's trained--hell, we just had lunch this afternoon--but it isn't the same. I don't think he's so much mad at me as just disappointed. Disappointed that I turned my back on them before they could throw me out. 

God knows they would have. Well, maybe not Winston... 

He's been great through all of this. Or at least as great as a guy can be when he's had his heart ripped out. And stomped on--mostly by two guys who used to be his best friends. He spends his time going back and forth between us, trying to make peace. 

You'd think after five years, he'd finally get the point and stop trying, huh? Given the look on his face over moo goo gai pan today, I think he's getting it now. 

Relationship problems with the _living_ aside, if _he'd_ lived, I'd've still had a great job, three great friends, and a great life. And now, I have a job that pays the bills--better than busting did, sometimes--and no friends at all. A life? Not likely, thanks. I don't think I've actually been alive at all, since he died... The bastard. 

The psychologist in me has diagnosed me with severe abandonment issues and a distressing transference of anger to an inappropriate source. Peter Venkman knows he's to blame for the death of one of his dearest friends, but his inability to deal with his grief and guilt has caused him to transfer his anger at fate onto the aforementioned friend. 

See I really hate Ray for dying. 

I hate him for ruining my life. I hate him for stuffing Egon back into the lab permanently and making Winston a weary, and I think increasingly bitter, peacemaker between former best friends who just can't stand to be near each other anymore. I hate him for ending the happiest time in my life--the only time I ever felt completely safe. I've hated him for five years, and I don't plan on stopping now. 

I've given up on my therapist--and my patient. 

"Dr. V?" 

I look up sharply, expecting someone else. I don't know why--I haven't talked to Janine since she slapped me in the face at Ray's funeral--but there are some days when Molly walks in here and says that, and I just look up, expecting it to be Janine. Denial, magical thinking, call it anything you want. Just don't think about how bad it feels when it isn't her. 

"Yeah, Molly?" I know I sound like death warmed over, and I know Molly knows why. She's been my TA for two years now. She knows the drill. 

"I just came in to get the notes for tomorrow's classes," she offers quietly. She's always quiet on this date. Usually, she's got enough energy to make Ray look placid, but today, she's always quiet. "I'll see you on Thursday?" 

I nod silently, rising with my briefcase in hand. I smile at her, but I think she knows I don't really mean it. "Thanks, Molly. I'll see you Thursday." 

Thursday. The 1828th day of my life since Ray died. 

God, I hate him. 

And I just don't know how I'm going to wake up tomorrow without him. 

* * * 

I saw the ghost before anybody else did. It was a class six, just like Egon said it was, and it was mean! Seriously deadly. 

"You'd best get over here, guys!" I yelled, priming for the shot. Damn, I hated busts like this. I just had a feeling--like the ones I used to get in Nam. This was going to be bad. Very bad. 

"On our way!" 

Ray. Damn, that kid would've thought Nam was a county fair--if the VC had all been ghosts. You'd think a kid that lost his parents so young, a kid that grew up on a farm that was more work camp than foster home, wouldn't be able to muster so much enthusiasm. But that was Ray for you. More monkeys than a barrel of fun, that kid. 

I saw him up on the catwalk, Peter lurching to a halt next to him as he topped the stairs, and felt Egon easing around behind the ghost, down on the ground floor with me. Good. I loved these guys like brothers, but early on, I used to wonder if I was ever going to get them trained properly. Plan well, move silent, hit hard. The only way to survive--whether you're talking VC or class sixes. 

"In place," Egon muttered quietly over the radio. I looked across the littered floor to see him crouched in the shadow of a large stack of crates. Ray and Peter moved away from each other slowly, trying to set up the ghost in crossfire without calling attention to themselves. 

And dear God, I wish it had worked. 

The ghost was fast! Faster than we'd thought it would be. It whirled around, focusing on Ray, who now stood alone on a thirty-foot length of catwalk. With an unearthly howl, it started toward him. 

Two beams shot out, mine and Peter's. Egon wasn't far behind, but Ray hesitated. A lot. 

Hell, I would have, too, if that thing had come at me. All fangs and teeth and gore, it looked like death coming to claim its own. He just froze. And death came for him. 

I heard the crates beside Egon clatter down as the ghost dragged us, and I heard Peter's yell of surprise as he was nearly pulled off the catwalk. But all I saw was the terror on Ray's face. I never saw that there before--no matter how ugly, how vicious, how downright _evil_ the ghost was, Ray was always happy to meet it. He lived for this stuff--something I don't think he'd ever have thought could happen, given his quiet life before the Ghostbusters. 

But his terror that day haunts me in my dreams. That, and the scream he let out when he fell. 

The ghost hit him hard, and Ray just couldn't stay on his feet. I hope he heard us all call to him as he tottered over the edge. I hope he knows how much we wish we could have stopped him. I still think I'd've given my life right then to make sure he stayed put. 

The six had enough power to pull me and Egon off our feet, and I heard a grunt of pain and a louder clatter from the other end of the main floor. But I couldn't spare a look as Egon's beam shut off, and Peter and I were left to try to trap the mother. Pete's face was white as a sheet, and I could almost see the tears from where I stood, thirty feet below. 

Thirty feet. Damn, that's a hell of a drop. I kept my eyes on the six, and didn't even close them as I heard Ray hit the concrete, his scream cutting off coldly. 

I turned my stream up full, hoping to piss the damn thing off. It worked, and it was almost more than I could do to throw the trap out while those teeth came at me. Two streams couldn't hold it, but it couldn't just run over an open trap without taking a little vacation. I watched with a sick satisfaction as it stretched into the light, the doors smacking shut. 

I hope that mother found himself a boyfriend in containment. 

"RAY!!!" Peter's scream was what got me moving, though I sure as hell didn't want to. I looked up briefly, gasping at the pain on his face. Pete sat crumpled, half off the catwalk, looking for all the world like he wanted to take the easy way down after Ray, and all I could think was please God, don't let me lose two of them. I was kind of shocked later that I hadn't even thought to check on Egon. 

Ray was gone before I knelt down next to him. I knew it, and I think Pete did, too. The blood that spread out from his hair--red on red--should have been a clue, but a part of me had to try, had to feel for a pulse... 

I think I must be a masochist, somewhere down inside. That or I had always had as much faith as Ray did that the universe was somehow just. I know now that that's just plain wrong. The universe is out to screw you any way it can. The last five years have been ample proof of that. 

"Ray?" 

Pete had gotten himself down the safe way after all, though I still don't like to think how fast he took those stairs. I couldn't have been kneeling there but a minute before he was sliding down to sit next to me. 

I know Pete blames himself. I see it in his eyes every time he walks into what used to be our home. Every time he looks at me, forcing a cheery smile that he has never, ever, felt since that day. I want to tell him he's wrong. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault--though Egon thinks different, too. It was stupid luck--luck we'd been pushing for eight years. It was going to happen sometime. I'm just selfish enough to wish it had happened to me first. 

Though maybe it's not all selfishness. I know the guys love me as much as I love them, but they could have gotten over it. Ray would've been devastated, but he'd have had Peter and Egon to lean on--both of them. Together. Losing _me_ wouldn't have killed Peter and Egon's friendship. It wouldn't have made them leave. 

Because, of course, they'd have had Ray to get them through it. Ray, who could heal any breach, any pain, simply by his own powerful goodness. Goodness yours truly is sadly lacking. If there's any blame here, it's mine. I should have been able to help them stay together. But all I could do was think about how hard it is to say goodbye to a little brother. I couldn't keep them together after I'd already fallen apart. 

As we knelt there, Pete cradled Ray in his arms, and he was so silent I wondered if he would ever talk again. After a minute, the pain got so bad, I couldn't watch. I tried looking everywhere for something to focus on--and came across a pile of crates, some spilling machine parts, with a white and blood hand sticking out. 

I couldn't even breathe his name, and again, I prayed I hadn't lost two, cursing myself for not noticing his absence in the first place. Wonder what my mind was on. 

It took a minute to dig him out, and I was afraid to move him when I did. Egon looked bad. A rib stuck out just the way they shouldn't, blood covered one side of his face, and more graced his lips, bubbling unpleasantly with every shaky breath like it does when they say "massive internal bleeding." Worse, his glasses had shattered, one plastic lens half-dug into his cheek--I didn't think about it digging into his eye. I know it did, but I think I've always blocked that out, because all I remember clearly is the blood on his lips. 

"Egon?" 

My whisper must have carried, because Peter twisted toward me, Ray's body still in his arms. He didn't say anything, but I could feel his pain growing as he looked over at us. God, why do you let things like this happen? Wasn't losing Ray enough? 

Touching Ray's motionless neck had hurt, and it took a minute before I could try the same move with Egon. 

But it wasn't necessary. Egon came around, slowly slitting his left eye open, his right lid twitching and leaking something that just wasn't all blood. I heard Pete hiss in concert with him, and I remember a stray thought that flashed through my mind. Maybe they really were psychic--at least with each other. I know now that that's not true. If they were, they'd each know how much the other is still hurting, and they'd try to talk. That's another failure of mine--five years running. 

"Ray?" 

I closed my eyes in sympathy. He knew. Even as much as he had to be hurting physically, his heart hurt more. Because Egon knew Ray was gone. 

"Where's... Peter...?" 

"Right here, Spengs." 

The voice wasn't Pete's--it couldn't be. Cold and rocky and desolate, the croak that answered with an undertone of caring was that of a man already nine parts dead, trying to cling to what life he had left. 

Well, I'd just have to make sure there was some life left after all. Sitting back, one hand still on Egon's forehead, I called for the ambulance that only one of them needed. This much I could do. 

Egon was trying to move, trying to crane around to look for Pete, who hadn't budged from his post as bier. I firmed up my hand on his head as his actions made his breathing sound just that much more painful. 

"Don't try to move, Egon," I whispered. "Close your eyes." 

"But... Ray?" Pink froth at his lips was more than enough for me to pray and pray hard. But what I was really praying for just wasn't going to happen... 

Oh God! Why? Why did this happen? Why did the one thing that really made me happy, the one thing that made me sometimes even forget Nam had ever happened... Why did it have to end like that? 

And why can't I have it back? 

 

"Winston?" 

Janine--no, Serena. God, I still catch myself doing that. I don't know what I was thinking when I hired her to take over, after everything blew up on us. Serena's a brunette, but she has all the spit and power that Janine had. I wonder what _she's_ doing now. I tried to call her, in those weeks after Egon's grief and pain finally drove her away, but she never returned my calls. I finally went by her apartment, but she's gone. 

One more casualty of war. 

"Yeah, Serena?" 

She moves over to sit on the edge of my desk--Pete's desk--and smiles sadly. Everybody knows what day today is. This morning is starting out hell, and I can't see the afternoon being any easier. 

"You okay?" 

I snort. No way, honey. I'm five years out from okay. Hell, I'm so far from okay, I can't even get there from here. "I'm surviving," I allow. 

She reaches out to pat my hand, and I can't help but smile just a little bit. I'm so glad she's here. She's a good kid. All of them are. I wish I didn't need them here, but I'm glad the business didn't go under. Ray would've hated that. 

"Maybe you should... I don't know. Go out. Do something." She shrugs, and I reach out to cover her hand with mine. 

"Thanks, 'Rena. But I think I'll stay in today." 

She huffs lightly--just like Janine used to--and stands, hands on hips. "Stay in and mope, huh? Maybe take a tour around the firehouse, remembering the old days?" I know she doesn't want to be mean, and I can't fault her. She must hate today. Everyone does. It's why the kids manage to schedule so many busts on this date. Every single year. 

I smile again into her soft eyes. God, Ray would've loved her. Rising, I give her a gentle hug, reveling in her concern-- _anyone's_ concern. "No. Maybe I'll work on Ecto a little. She's been idling high lately." 

With a sympathetic grin, she lets me go as I head for what is now the second car in this broken family. Tony--my twenty-three-year-old second in command, who's more like Peter was than anybody has a right to be--finally convinced me last year that my girl was just too "old-fashioned" to tool around in anymore. She's just the show car now; a new, sleek SUV has taken her place for business--with the new logo on the side. My baby's still got the old ghost. And she ain't never losing it. 

But Ecto _has_ been running a little hot lately. Honestly, I don't know how I've kept the old girl going for so long, but a little duct tape here, a little bailing wire there, and she's usually purring like a kitten. Course, when Ray was around, she ran that way all the time. That kid could rebuild an engine like nobody I've ever seen... 

Damn. 

I guess I always wondered what would happen when one of them died--even way back to Gozer. I knew the score with these eggheads right from the beginning, knew their love for each other was that kind of caring that came from having other people complete you. And man, I wanted that--the real deal. Friendship with a twenty-foot neon F. 

And after a while, I was in it, and Ray was helping to complete _all_ of us. He was that kid inside that Peter was just too jaded, and Egon too stuffy, to let free. I never thought of myself as very grown up, but with Ray as a mirror...? 

I miss that kid. God, I miss him like crazy. And I miss _us_ even more. 

Whenever I used to think about what would happen if one of them died and the other two stayed behind, I always saw the two being there for each other. I sure as hell didn't see them ripping each other apart, or ripping themselves apart without the other one to put the pieces back together. 

> _"Come on, Egon, what's a little eyeball between friends. Could be worse, you know?"_
> 
> _"Surely your frequent workouts must be doing_ some _good, Peter. Though I can hardly credit that with empirical proof."_

Tiny little remarks that might have been said in jest at any other time, but back then? I knew what was happening. _They_ knew what was happening. Egon can analyze any statement to death. He had to know that Peter was hurting--trying to clam up so he wouldn't be hurt again. And Peter is just too damn good a psychologist not to recognize that kind of lashing out when he sees it. But he was too caught up in his own grief to care about how what he said might strike Egon. Hell, I don't even think he knew Egon was carrying around the same guilt. 

And he just never let me get close enough to help him out. That first time I tried, late at night when Egon was still lying in that damn hospital, Pete nearly decked me, rather than let me in. That hurt. Man, did that hurt. Nearly as much as Egon's cold-faced disregard for his own pain. The way he used to give me any comfort I needed, while refusing to let me give what I _needed_ to... 

God, all I wanted was _something._ Something of the life we had before. Nothing was ever going to be the same without Ray, but I didn't know how much worse it could get. 

Looking around the firehouse, which is painted in dark, "modern" colors, with slick, young furniture, and doesn't look anything like it did when I was happy... Well, I know now just how bad worse is. 

Damn, I wish Egon would call. I still keep in touch with them both, and I guess that's something. But man, it's hard to listen to them each dance around each other's memories. They miss each other like you miss a lost limb, but they just can't seem to break through the shame--misplaced though it sure as hell is. 

But I _need_ to talk to them. I _need_ to know that, while far from all right, they're at least still breathing. 

I do wish he'd call today. Or maybe I should call him... 

Hell, I wish Ray was here. Then I wouldn't have to wish at all. 

* * * 

Ah! Rosy-fingered dawn... Here's a finger for you, Rosie. 

1827 days. 366, 731, 1096, 1461, 1827... And Egon said I'd never learn math. Hell, I can even do leap years! 

Okay, Pete, enough pats on the back. Time to play the game. Come on, it'll be fun! Between the exhaustion and the alcohol, it might not even hurt this time. 

I said that last year, you say? And the year before? Five years running? 

Shut up and play. It's the least you deserve. 

Okay... Time for another round of "If He Had Lived"... 

If Ray had lived he'd be razzing me about the big four-five, all the while knowing I lie in wait for his fortieth--which would have been a doozy! Oh, and by the way--he'd still look 12. No grey hairs for him--not like me. He'd still be plump and bouncy and alive, still talking about losing weight while shoveling in Winston's pancakes every morning. 

I'd still have a family--still make fun of Egon every time he blew something up, still joke about Winston's love life, still smile when Ray just _had_ to run to the store right now to pick up the latest Captain Steel. Well, no, not that. They stopped running Captain Steel three years ago. 

I vaguely remember getting drunk in mourning for that. 

We'd still be busting and I'd still be famous, not the blacklisted, discredited hack I am now. No backwater city college job for me, no sir. Fame and fortune and pretty girls... 

And Ray and Egon and Winston and Janine... 

This calls for a toast. 

Damn. Did I drink _all_ that Jack Daniels last night? 

Well, fuck it. I'd go out and get more, but Ray would kill me if I even _walked_ drunk, wouldn't he? 

I hate you, Ray. God damn it, I hate you so much I could kill you... again. Then Egon could hate me even more. 

I wonder what he's doing today. This is the other game I play: What is Egon doing? I mean, I know all about his latest grant--something to do with particle wave physics and protonic effects on living flesh--but I don't know how he's feeling or what he's thinking or whether he misses me or... 

I suppose I could call Winston and find out... Nah, he'll think I'm a pod person for calling so early. I used to sleep. I used to be really good at it, actually. Damn near Olympic-level. Now I'm wondering what Guinness has to say about a man who hasn't slept since he killed his best friend. 

One of them, anyway. 

So, Egon's at MIT. I hear he's doing great, and I'm happy for him. He deserves all the happiness he can get, especially after what I've done to him. I also hear he's a nutcase, but that happened long before even I met him, so that's hardly my fault. No... The fact that he's back to being Mr. LivesInLab _is_ my fault. Still, his success goes to show what happens when you don't have a life. He won some fancy physics award last year, and I almost called him. But being hung up on by a man who used to be your best friend isn't really something even Masochist Pete wants to deal with. 

Doesn't matter. Winston always keeps me up on the mad scientist. Poor Winston. I think he'd rather not be the go-between for us, but I'm always glad to hear word of Egon's life now. It's a damn sight better than mine, which I guess is as it should be. He was always smarter. Always better. If it had been him on the catwalk... I'm suddenly blinded by that memory, and I lurch to my feet through a swirl of grey and red-- 

Sorry, Ray... Gonna have to walk drunk after all. Maybe I'll get mugged. 

Probably serve me right. 

* * * 

The dean thinks I'm insane. He thinks that I have finally let five years of guilt and pain overwhelm me to the point that I cannot think clearly. I'm sure the entire physics department agrees. I can see it in their eyes when the other professors walk in, eye my temporal flux stabilizer with disapproval and try, unsuccessfully, to pull me from my lab. 

But I can't stop now. Not when, with a few more details covered and a sure-to-be-painful reunion made, I have a chance to change it. Five years of study, five years of derision and incredulity and failure are finally bearing fruit. I know they talk about me, thinking I'm still no more than the mad scientist who worked for the Ghostbusters all those years ago... But I am more--and so very much less. Five years have changed so much about me. After all, losing a brother is never an easy thing. 

And when his death is a direct result of your own actions, it is all the more difficult. 

I hesitated. Had I fired at the first sign of movement, had I not allowed it to gain sufficient speed, had I not blundered along in its wake to slam into those crates, thereby losing my shot-- 

But for me, Raymond would still be alive. 

Winston has tried to dispel this notion--often at great volume. I understand that my guilt is a source of pain for him. I understand that he feels that what happened after Ray's death was entirely avoidable. I understand that he wishes Peter and I could still speak to one another. 

I understand that he misses Raymond as much as I do. I also understand that it was my fault he died, and my own guilt that drove Peter from us. I remember little of those first three months, which I can only deem a blessing--though a mixed one at best. I had time--if I could have remembered all of it, far, far too much time--to contemplate my loss and my folly as I lay in that godforsaken hospital... Alone. 

While Winston spent many of his days with me and Janine was my constant companion for more of the time than I ever deserved, Peter came to me infrequently after that first month, his eyes increasingly haunted as he stared at me. The loneliness that retreat left me with was unbearable, and neither Winston nor Janine could fill the void. 

And I... could not face him. My dearest friend and I could not meet his eyes with the one I had remaining to me. The anger I saw in him was more than I could bear at the time, and I remember fleeting bursts of hope that he would eventually forgive me. But time slipped away, and so did he, and when I returned home--finally--I found him gone. In his place was a man I had never known. Or rather, a man I had known fifteen years before. 

I clearly recall him, standing by Janine's empty desk, a dark and furious look in his eyes and stone in his voice as he bid me welcome home. But it was never home again. Through my own bungling, my own weakness, I had destroyed all that I had worked to achieve, all that I had striven to build. And when I attempted to salvage what I could...? 

I had already killed Ray, and then I demolished the best part of the two other men I loved most in the world. 

And all this, God help me, I _will_ correct... 

"Ghostbusters Central." 

The phone is cold in my hand as I hear Serena's voice. Somehow, I still expect Janine. But she's been gone for years. And I suppose that is my fault, as well. I drove her away. Her empathy was like a living thing, reminding me of my failure. Those days in the hospital, with her beside me to lie to me and tell me that it was Peter, not I, who was at fault, were almost as painful as the nights spent reliving Raymond's death. Nights that left me unprepared to do her devotion justice... And in the end, she left me as well. 

I wish now that she had been there. Given time, perhaps she could have overcome her anger--realized that Peter was not the one she should have been blaming. I know she could have succeeded with Peter where I did not. It was not until later that I realized that she had given up on him long before she had on me. 

"Ghostbusters. Hello!?" 

I bring myself back from the edge with an effort. "Serena--" 

"Egon!" She always seems so happy to hear my voice. I can't imagine why. 

"Is Winston in?" 

"Sure thing." She pulls the phone away and screams his name, and I have to smile. When he hired her, I don't think even Winston understood that he was hiring Janine in a different form--nor that trends regarding secretaries and their bosses tend to repeat themselves. 

"Hey, Egon! I was just thinking about you!" 

Winston can occasionally seem almost happy now. For months after Ray's death, he was quiet--more quiet than I had ever seen him. Even after five years, I think he still feels it as acutely as I do. It was an almost physical pain for both of us when he used to see a commercial for one of Ray's conventions. He'd catch himself, as if he wanted to ask Ray to go with him, just to spend time together. I remember doing the same when I would work in the lab, remember asking empty air for the capacitor or circuit that Ray should have been there to hand to me as we shared our own sort of quality time. 

I believe the last time was yesterday. Perhaps tomorrow, he'll actually answer. 

"How are you?" I have become inane and banal since Ray's death. Small talk is easier somehow, and I know now why Peter always used it. 

"...Good." I don't believe him, but I don't think he expects me to. "I had lunch with Peter yesterday. Told him about your new grant..." 

I smile in spite of myself. He wants to tell me that Peter was happy for me, or that he said something encouraging. But I know he didn't, though there is a corner of my mind that hopes he was at least pleased by the news. Peter... has become himself again. The man he was before Ray ever came into his life--before I came into it. He is the smug, self-assured man his father always hoped he'd be, and as frightened and shuttered a man as such a painful childhood could produce. Shuttered. Closed off... I envy that sometimes. And I envy Winston, in being able to talk to him. But Peter's silence is still less condemnation than I deserve. 

...Sometimes, I sit in wonder at the amount of blame I have in this whole terrible proceeding. 

"He's well?" I can't help asking. I can't forget as easily as he. 

Winston snorts sadly. "Are any of us?" 

No, Winston. None of us are. But soon... we may be. 

"I... am coming to New York." I keep it simple. What I have to say cannot possibly be said over phone lines. I'm not entirely certain it can be said in person. "I was wondering if perhaps I might drop in?" 

Again, he snorts. "Egon, when did you ever have to ask?" My silence has tipped him off. "What's going on?" 

"Could you, perhaps..." I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "I would like to see Peter, as well." 

There is a long moment of stunned silence on the line. When he speaks again, I can hear a smile. "Well, all _right_!" Oh, Winston. I know you think this will be easy now... But what I have to propose will never be more difficult. And I doubt Peter wishes to hear it--especially from me. 

"I should be there by four." 

Winston is silent a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is as warm as if he were talking to Ray himself. "We'll be here." 

I hang up and rest my head in my hands. God, please. Let me be right. If I am, _all_ of us will be there. 

* * * 

I don't even believe it. After four and a half years, I _can't_ believe it. Egon wants to talk. I don't know what brought this on--I don't want to know, judging by the shadows in his voice.... 

I gotta call Pete! 

"Venkman's house of pain! Master Peter at your service." 

Damn. Drunk again. I never knew him to have more than a beer or two at a time before Ray died, though the stories Ray and Egon used to tell about college...? Still, suppose I should have known better this morning. And he still ain't sleeping. Didn't think a man could live this long without serious downtime. 

Course, I know my own nightmares don't give me much rest, and _I_ don't think Ray's dying was my fault. Wonder if Egon sleeps either. 

"Hey Pete!" Go ahead, Winston. Try to be hale and hearty. Been doing it five years running, no need to stop now. 

"WINSTON!" Gonna be deaf if that keeps up. "How y'doin?" 

"Sober." 

"More than you can say for you," he slurs. Damn, when'd he start last night? I don't know if he's gonna be _conscious_ by four. 

"Look, I know you're having fun, man, but--" 

"Fun Pete! That's me!" 

"You were always a lousy drunk, Venkman--shut up a minute!" Boy would try the patience of a saint. Well, not Ray, but all the other ones, anyway. "I need you down at the firehouse by four." Don't tell him why. Not in this condition. 

"Four in the morning!? No way!" 

"How about four in the afternoon?" I offer, hiding a reluctant smile. 

"Oh! Thas dif'ent! No prob, m'man... I jus gadda..." The Venkman gag reflex. I've heard it before and don't ever want to hear it again. "cuse'm--" 

I hope he'll actually remember this conversation this afternoon--and I sure as hell hope he doesn't face Egon drunk. I don't need to see that kind of violence again. 

* * * 

54.253 repeating. I can't come up with better odds. I've even tried my calculator, as I could be convinced that my own mind is hardly functioning at top efficiency. It hasn't been for... some time. 

I cannot give him a lower probability than that. Nor can I give Raymond any higher than 44.673. And of course, there is the realization that we have only a 33.49 chance of executing the transference successfully. 

Five years ago, he would not hesitate to take these odds. Five years ago, he would have thrown them off without a second thought--more likely, without a first. 

But five years can be an interminably long time, and we have both changed in such destructive ways.... 

As my plane boards, I cannot help but muse over the change my life has taken since Ray's death. Strangely, throughout all of the trials--my troubles with my father and uncle, the loss of my scientific credibility, the rigors of ghostbusting... throughout it all, I do not believe that I could ever have been known to find it all intolerable. 

These last five years have been. 

Without my friends, I have not been... complete. Without them, I have lived, and even succeeded in a fashion. But without them-- _all_ of them, I am very much adrift. 

He _will_ take this chance. He must. I... I simply cannot stand for him to do anything less.... 

Even if he knew the odds.... 

Winston would refuse, of course. On a less than five percent chance, Winston will not risk losing us all--not after what he has lost in the past. I can imagine his anger at the notion, and the pain I would be adding to his burden should the overlap in Peter and Ray's chances bear the wrong sort of fruit. He would not take the risk of another loss like Raymond's. Not if he knew the truth. 

But numbers cannot attempt to lie if they are not offered. 

Please, Ray... If you are in the heaven Winston so believes in... Please, help me... 

* * * 

Today seems like a good day for reflection--now I'm finally sobered up. I pay off the cab and look up at the building that was _home_ for eight of the best years of my life. They've changed the logo--too "kitsch," Tony said--and now a dark, slick ghost runs across the front of the building. That's not the only thing that's changed, I know. 

Winston had the top floor remodeled. It has separate bedrooms now. Egon's lab is gone. Of course, Egon's gone, too, so it's not as if he'll miss it. Damn. I can't believe I screwed everything up so much. Egon should never have left. I know he did it because of me, but I can't figure out why. I mean, I was already gone by the time he threw in the towel. 

I'll never understand him. I thought I did, but, once Ray was gone, it was like I was talking to a different person. He got... He was devastated. It wasn't just the physical pain that I saw when I looked into his one good eye--and God, _that_ hurt like a son of a bitch to see--it was that wound I had myself. Like nothing could ever be good again, now that Ray was gone. 

And it was my fault. I know Winston doesn't blame me. I _know_ it. I don't understand, but I know. But Egon? Every time I looked at him, I could see him blaming me. If I had just stuck closer. If I had just been quicker... God, the fact that Ray's death lost me Egon is something I'll never forgive Tex for. I know it's my fault he died, but his death cost me everything. 

Well, I can't change that now. I can't take him by the shoulders and shake him until I feel better. I can't do anything but come when Winston asks me to... _Because_ he asked. Because at least I can salvage one thing from all of this and that's Winston's friendship. Why he wants to give it, I have no idea, but I'm damn sure not going to give it up. 

"Peeeeeter!" 

With a flash of green, Slimer's gone. He vanishes at the sight of me now, and before all this happened, I think I would have been thrilled by the development, but it bothers me that the spud's scared of me. Of course, I sure as hell gave him reason to be. 

 

Slimer didn't quite understand, at first--what's the big deal about death when you're already dead yourself? Winston told him, frequently, that Ray wasn't ever coming back, and each time, the admission seemed to take more out of my friend. To repeat that kind of crushing truth too many times can break a person, and Winston--always our rock--was stretched beyond endurance by the end of that first month. Out of everything that happened, _everything_ \--Ray's death, Egon's anger, everything--I think that pain in Winston's eyes was what finally broke me. That something could kill _his_ spirit was too damn much for me to take. 

Unfortunately for the spud, I was doing pack maintenance when he hovered into the garage a month after Ray's death. Not that we'd been taking any busts--not with just the two of us left--but it gave me something to do. Something to help me forget.... Anyway, Slimer went through phases: He'd weep and wail and cry Ray's name for days, then be his normal, irritating self for just long enough to make us think he'd finally adjusted. Then the question would come again. 

"Winston?" he'd asked querulously that afternoon. "Where's Ray?" 

Winston's shoulders had slumped, and I decided I'd finally had enough. Thrower in hand, I rose. 

"He's dead, Slimer!" God, I bet I sounded like Death himself as I stalked toward him. Slimer floated, puzzled, and didn't even think to be scared of me. "He's dead! He's not ever coming back!" I'd powered up, mindless of Winston's shout of outrage, and taken a bead on the spud as I threw out a trap. "STOP ASKING THE FUCKING QUESTION!!!" 

Winston laid me out flat with a left, and I was just about conscious again when he let the green potato out of the mini containment unit. Slimer gave me one terrified howl and took off. 

"What the fuck was that, Pete!?" he'd screamed at me. "It isn't like _he_ knows any better! You sure should have!" 

It was the next day before Winston would even be in the same room with me... And Slimer didn't come back for a week. Winston let me have it daily about scaring the spud off until he showed up. I think that was when I knew it was really all gone. I knew I wasn't getting _anything_ back. There was something in me, some anger at having a dad like Charlie or a life like mine or something, that Ray and Egon had been holding in check all those years. 

And now Egon wouldn't even look at me--and Ray couldn't.... I hit that infamous point of no return, and that was when I realized that Egon didn't need me around anymore. He didn't need to see the guy who'd killed Ray, didn't need to try to keep his own anger at me in check when my own had clearly come loose from its rusty chains. I killed Ray, I lost Egon, and Slimer never let me near him again. 

I've never apologized for that. Not to Winston, not to Slimer. I still can't say I care very much, because at least I never had to hear Winston say "Ray's dead" ever again. 

Because no matter how many times I hear it, I'm never going to deal. 

 

Serena's at the desk, and her smile is as warm as always. I kind of expect her to fight with me--a holdover from the previous keeper of that desk--but she's always glad to see me, and she smiles so sweetly at Winston when she tells him I'm there. I wonder about those two. Good god, he's old enough to be her father! At least Egon and Janine were close to the same age... 

Still, whatever happiness you can get, right? 

"Hi, Peter," she says, a secret smile on her lips, that has to worry me today. 

"Hey, 'Rena," I shoot back, trying for a casual tone. "Where are Tony and the gang?" 

"Out on a bust, of course," she states, as if I should have known. Today being what it is, I guess I should have. "Winston's in his office." 

I move toward it. The desk and filing cabinets are the same, but everything else says Winston, not me. Gone are my nicely ordered piles, my stack of journals... and in their place is the most god-awful neatness I've ever seen. Sometimes, I wonder about Winston's sanity. 

As I push open the gate, I can see Winston propped against the desk, another form hidden behind him, seated in his chair. 

"Hey, Winston. What's going--" I cut off as he moves, the apparition behind him speaking up. 

"Peter?" 

Egon's changed. 

The curl is gone. I knew that. I saw a photo of him in one of the journals out of MIT. Molly is almost as into physics as she is into psychology, and I knew he'd cut it off. His hair is short now--not really short, but short enough that what was a surfer's curl is now a stubborn cowlick. Looking at him, I see that the tail went with it. 

But God, he looks tired. And old. No man should look that old at 46. Course, I suppose I shouldn't look so bad at 44, so who am I to judge? 

He doesn't wear a patch anymore, on the bad eye. I wonder if he just stopped caring, or if the random blank orb adds to his self-image as a mad scientist. Either way, I wish he had one. I can almost stand to see the condemnation in his sighted eye, but that blankness? 

Shit. 

"Egon." I wish I didn't sound so cold. I can't help it though. He left me! Okay, okay, so _I_ left, but he didn't come after me. And he has no idea how much I wanted him to. No idea how much I needed him to come and find me and tell me he still loved me, even after all I'd done. 

Winston's throat-clearing can always be counted on to shake me out of a reverie. 

"Pete... Egon's got something to tell us." He smiles tightly, an expression that's half hope and half... something else. "It's really going to blow your mind." 

* * * 


	2. Chapter 2

I don't want to be here.

It's like vets going back to Da Nang. I never went--even when Tommy called and asked me--because I just can't stand to remember. Not that damn near every second of that tour isn't burned into me permanently, but going back to the scene of the crime just opens old wounds. Like now.

As one, Egon and Peter and I walk slowly toward the spot where Ray died. We didn't ask permission from the owner. He's gotten the place back in shape now, but some quirk of fate has ensured that Ray's deathbed is empty of crates. It also ensured that the warehouse was empty of staff--and locked.

If Egon's right, this little bit of breaking and entering isn't going to matter anyway.

I look over and find him, predictably, watching Peter. Pete hasn't said much since he's seen Egon again. Four and a half years of silence haven't done much for either one of them. They're both tired and sad and desperately missing each other, needing to be comforted and thinking neither of them deserve it. This has to work. They need each other more than either one can imagine. Just the age on their faces says as much.

"So, explain it to me again, Egon?" I ask, hoping to shake him away from his one-eyed perusal. It works, and he sets his new toy--complete with bells and whistles--on the floor, taking out a meter for what might be the first time in five years--at least anywhere outside the lab. I've been using the equipment in the field since they left and it  _still_  gives me the shivers sometimes. I can imagine what it's doing to him.

"According to synchronic temporal theory," he begins, sounding so much like his old egghead, preoccupied self that even Peter is looking up in surprise, "a temporal-dimensional rift in exactly the same place, on the same day, should allow us to go back in time and... reverse the accident."

"Reverse? Or prevent?"

Damn, I knew Pete had to talk sometime. But does he have to be so cold about it?

Egon's eye comes up to meet his, and I can see the pain there. I wonder what Pete's been doing to himself for five years that he can't see it too.

"Prevent. I'm sorry for the lack of clarity."

Shit. I better find a two-by-four, because if this doesn't work, I'm going hit them both with it!

Pete shrugs, like he doesn't care, but I can see the muscles bunching in his jaw.

"So how do we do it?"  _I_  always have to be the one asking the practical questions.

Egon clears his throat and swings the meter around again. "Each of us must be in the exact position he was in just before it... happened." He looks at his watch, and I can see his hand shaking. "We have ten minutes to get into place."

"Why ten minutes?"

Hey, seems like a perfectly good question to me. But Peter sags painfully, looking up into Egon's face--really looking at him for the first time. Gotta wonder what he thinks he sees.

"That's when Ray died, five years ago," he murmurs sadly. I didn't think my heart could hurt any more than it already does. "5:47."

I'm sick that he remembers so exactly, but I guess I shouldn't be. Peter remembers everything. Which brings up a question...

"Will we... remember?" I can't believe the words can get out past the lump in my throat. "The past five years? Will we know?"

Egon shakes his head. "I don't know."

I'm trying to get my head around that. If we remember... God! Ray won't. For Ray, the past five years haven't been anything. Surely heaven can't be remembered on earth, can it? If we don't--

"If we don't," Pete echoes, "how will we know what to do?" He asks my own question. "And what happens if we  _do_  remember, but still can't..."

The pain in Egon's good eye is blinding. I almost can't hear him speak. "There is a... forty-five percent chance we will..." He straightens, trying to sound logical. But he only sounds desperate, to me. "But even if we don't..." His eye latches on to me, begging for  _something_. I don't know what. "We have to try."

Even though it may mean losing him all over again... I won't think about that. I can't.

"So that means there's a fifty-five percent chance we'll win!" Denial, that's my middle name.

Egon's baby blue darts up to meet Pete's eyes, and they're doing it again... sort of. It's like the old psychic thang they used to have, but this time it gives me the creeps.

And so does Egon's voice. "Yes. A fifty-five percent chance."

Wait a minute--fifty-five percent chance of what, exactly? It ain't just success, or my neck wouldn't be crawling, but Pete just nods quietly, and I'm amazed to see him walking toward Egon. He's kept his distance since they saw each other first a couple of hours ago, like he's afraid he'll be hit... again. Now he's reaching out, putting a hand on Egon's shoulder and keeping it there, even though Egon flinches away.

"Whatever happens," he whispers, quietly enough that I can barely hear. His repetition of the phrase makes me shiver. "What _ever_  happens... I hope we don't. I hope you don't remember what I've done." I can see him shaking, and I want to move forward, but I can't. Pete has to do this on his own. "I'm so sorry, Egon."

Egon didn't cry when Ray died. I always thought eventually he would, but if he did, he never let me see it. I cried more than I ever had before, in the weeks after that day, but Egon kept it together. Even though it cost him a big part of his soul.

But now he  _is_  crying. The look in his eye is all for Pete and it's all pain. His voice is shattered glass.

"God, Peter!" he moans quietly. "I saw the ghost going for him, and I  _knew_ \--I just--"

Pete--finally--rises to the occasion, wrapping an arm around Egon's neck and butting foreheads with him, tears of his own standing in his eyes. "Don't... Egon, please..." I've never seen him more devastated--not even when Ray died. He opens his mouth, but he can't seem to force anything out, like he needs to tell Egon it's not his fault, but his own guilt is getting in the way.

Now, I can move. They can't do this to themselves, not when we have a chance to change it. Not when I can get them all back and whole. Long odds are what we used to thrive on. I just hope we can make that luck work one more time. Ray, buddy? If you're out there, a little help would be appreciated.

"Guys, there's no time," I put in gently, walking up to clasp Egon's shoulder, putting a hand at the back of Peter's neck--completing the circuit for the first time in far too long. "You got things to talk about, but there's work to be done first." I draw myself up and stand away from them, looking at my watch. Five minutes to go.

Pete pulls himself together fast, and he's off toward the stairs, heading for the catwalk without another backward glance at us. I'm sure he remembers exactly where he was when that thing started moving. I know I do.

Egon takes another minute, rubbing at his eye. I hope he doesn't remember. I know at least a little of what he's put himself through in the last few years, and I don't know if even having Ray back will fix him. I remember everything he and Pete said to each other, the last time they met. I don't know if they can move past that--though having Ray back might be the miracle they need. Hell, it'll be the miracle we all need, won't it?

"Come on, homeboy," I whisper, squeezing his shoulder lightly. "Let's fix this."

He nods, the shadows in his eye making me shiver again, numbers running around in my head. What the hell was that talk of odds about? What else is in that fifty-five percent that's making me so nervous? I don't have time to ask him as he waves me back, setting up the stabilizer quickly. It's on a timer, he said. It'll go off whether we're in place or not.

Then it'll probably explode, knowing Egon's toys, but I hope we won't have to worry about that.

He and I run to our positions, though the crates are in different places now. Luckily, none of them are on the exact spots where we stood before. God must be looking out for us--this time.

"In place," Egon murmurs quietly, just like last time. I watch him look up to see Pete, and the whole world goes white.

* * *

The displacement is unpleasant and my eyes refuse to focus properly, but I know exactly where I am. The warehouse. Five years ago.

Looking up, I can vaguely see Peter moving, heading back toward Ray, heedless of the noise he's making.

"Fry him!"

I turn, watching blurrily as the ghost whirls in response to Peter's cry. No.  _No!_  This time, I will not hesitate.

But Peter is running for Raymond, and Winston and I can't hold the six--not with only two streams. It's pulling us. Just like before.

I hear Raymond cry out wordlessly and close my eyes--both sighted, I realize dimly. "God, no... Not again."

"Peter!"

Ray's panicked call snaps them open, and I swear under my breath. I still can't focus. Too many years of monocular vision, I suppose. I can still feel the pull of the ghost, heading me toward the crates again. I try to move to the left, succeeding only in losing my lock on the entity. The voice that cries out cannot be mine. It is a voice of rage and pain, and I thought I had none left in me after five years in hell. "NO!"

"Got him!"

_Ray?_

I look up, focusing dimly, and see him on the catwalk. Alive! Ray is alive!

"Hey, Egon! Could use a little help here!"

Winston's exhortation brings me back to myself, and I lock my stream on the entity again, feeling its pull lessened by Ray's shot from above. One shot? Peter? Keeping half my focus on the writhing ghost, I look up again.

Only Ray. And I never even heard Peter fall...

Even the blinding light of the trap isn't enough to get me to close my eyes as I stare, my focus drifting in and out, adding to the nausea building in me. I have failed again--traded one life for another. That was the other heavy probability--more likely even than Ray's repeat death--and I can barely breathe as I remember how cavalierly I tossed it aside. One out of every two calculations meant Peter would die in Ray's stead.

And four percent more said we would lose them both.

I can hear yelling, but I understand nothing. I understand  _nothing_. How could I trade one for the other on a one-percent chance? How could I be so stupid!? Did I really allow the years of estrangement to blind me so to what I would feel if I lost him too--lost him as I lost Ray, not just as he drifted from me all those years ago? Can I truly be so cold?

So angry?

God, Peter... I'm sorry.

* * *

I see Egon drop, and this time... this time, I go to  _him_  first. No crates this time, no glass, no blood. As I drop to my knees, he's breathing fine. I can't figure why he's fainted, but at least that's all it looks to be.

"How's Peter?" I call, looking up into a face five years dead and brilliantly alive. Ray's kneeling awkwardly on the catwalk. I can't see Pete from here, but I saw that damn ghost hit him. Only this time, no one fell.

I thought he would. I saw Pete slip, saw his head snap back hard, and figured we'd just traded one loss for another. Can't imagine going through that again--and sure as hell not with Pete...

And now I finally know what the hell fifty-five percent means. God  _damn_  you, Egon!

"He's still out!" Ray calls down, sounding pretty stable. Pete must be, too. Takes a minute to remember the sound of Ray's voice, and when I do, I smile like sunshine. God, I love a happy ending! "It hit him so  _fast_!"

"And this time, we were ready for it," I whisper.

"What about Egon?" Ray yells, turning his attention to me and the lax form beside me. He looks a little like Peter did, all those years ago, hanging off the edge... But this time Ray's okay--and Pete's up there with him.

Egon's stirring, and I put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Come on, buddy. You're okay."

His eyes open and focus dully. His  _eyes_! Damn, that's nice. I knew we were supposed to kind of... switch bodies with our former selves, but it sure is great to see that second baby blue! I can't help but look up to Ray again. He's turned back to Peter now, but he's talking in low tones, no panic in his voice. That means Peter's probably fine. And Ray certainly is--I just can't say  _that_  enough! Peter's okay, Ray's fine, Egon's coming around...

Which means my life is damn near perfect!

"Peter?"

I look down at Egon sharply. I remember that tone, though five years ago--or never--it was Ray's name he said. Now why the hell...?

"He's okay, Egon." I try to be as firm as I can, but for some reason, he doesn't believe me. I scoot to the side, giving him a view of the catwalk. Pete's arm is hanging off the side, plain as day. He's even moving a little, and I can hear Ray still talking to him quietly. "See for yourself."

And then, as his eyes blink hard, it hits me. He  _can't_  see for himself. Mama, you raised one stupid boy! I remember my Uncle John. He was an adult when he got his lazy eye fixed, not a kid like most people, and he couldn't see straight for a week, learning to have two eyes when he was used to having one. Egon only lived like that for five years, but it must have been enough.

"He's okay, man," I repeat soundly. "I promise."

"Peter!" Ray's voice is happy and surprised, and it's that more than anything that decides Egon. I look up, chuckling. Pete's awake. He's awake, and he's hugging the stuffing out of Ray. Which is pretty much what I'd like to be doing right now. God, poor Ray. He just doesn't know what hit him.

And when he  _does_  know? Well, guess we'll deal with that later. Together.

"Hey, Pete! Wanna bring that party down here?" Egon's joining me in laughter, and suddenly, we can't stop. Five years of tears is a lot to make up for.

* * *

Wow!

That's all I can think right now. I think... I think it's going to take me some time to figure this all out, but the ramifications are just huge! The guys saved my life! For me, today was just today, but for them...

The entity was coming straight at me--and it was so  _fast_! And suddenly Peter was screaming at it, making it turn toward him, making it speed up. It hit him like a Mack truck, the force of it brushing past me as I stood about five feet away, and...

I thought his neck was broken. For a second there, I saw his head snap back and his side hit the railing, as the entity swiped at him, and I thought he was dead. Then the ghost was in the trap, and Peter was waking up, and after a minute he was hugging me and chanting "you're alive, you're alive, thank  _God_ , you're alive" like  _I_  was the one the six nearly killed!

And  _then_  we went downstairs, and Winston did the same thing all over again. It was freaky! And Egon... Gosh, he just stared at me for a long, long time, and wrapped me in this big bear hug like he was never going to let me go. He just said my name, but it was like he didn't even remember what it meant anymore--or maybe like it meant more to him than it did this morning.

On the way out the door, Winston started to tell me why.

 

He's funny. He just can't get over my being here. We got home from the bust three hours ago, and he keeps looking at me like I'm a ghost--which is kind of funny in and of itself, actually. And Peter and Egon are just as bad, but...

"Careful, Egon." Peter's grabbing Egon's mug without ever really having to touch his hand, placing it gently on the table in front of him before it can hit the floor. Wow. Egon was hurt pretty bad when... well, when I died. Winston told me he spent almost three months in the hospital. And he never could use the one eye again, which made his other eye get worse faster. Egon thinks that was why he's having so many problems now--cause his brain is still used to only one eye, and with a different prescription.

That's the theory, anyway. I don't know if that's really hard medicine, but he does keep almost dropping things on the ground, cause he can't seem to tell where the table is in front of him. He told me it's getting better, but I think that was just to make  _me_  feel better.

He and Peter are acting really weird--well, even weirder than I guess I should expect them to. I took Winston aside a little while ago--not easy to do when none of them want to let me out of their sight--and asked him what happened, but he won't tell me. He said I have to ask the guys myself. But I don't get the idea that he wants me to ask them tonight.

Still, they're dancing around each other. Like they're afraid of each other. That's kind of a sobering thought. That my... death... made them break up--cause that's obviously what's going on here. They're terrified of being together, and I have to wonder how long they spent apart. They were supposed to be friends forever--we all are! They should have been together, to help each other. Weird to have to say it, but it's what I would have wanted. I mean, what happened--or, will have happened?  _Would_  have happened?

Now my head hurts.

Peter's is okay, though. Gosh, I was so scared when that thing came at me. I don't know what made me freeze like that. I'm never afraid of them. I mean, busting ghosts is our job. And I usually like it. Usually a nasty one like that has me psyched to get it into a trap, not frozen in terror like that.

I wonder if I died because I was so scared. If it hadn't been for Peter distracting it this time, I probably would have...

Oh, wow.

"Hey, Egon?" Peter's smile is right, but there's something wrong with his voice. Like he's trying too hard. Like he's hoping for an opening from Egon, but he's not sure he's going to get one. "I missed your curl. Good to have it back."

_He cut his hair!?_

Egon suddenly pushes his chair away from the table, standing a little unsteadily. "I think I'll finish rewriting my notes on the temporal stabilizer," he says, concentrating so he won't walk into the wall on the way out. Or maybe he's just concentrating on getting away from Peter as fast as he can. "If I can refine the process, I know a number of researchers in this time who might find its construction useful."

In this time. Wow. That's just too great! Egon built a time machine--a  _time_  machine! And he built it to save my life. I rise, grabbing his arm as he passes me. "Egon, I--" How do you thank someone for something like that? The old-fashioned way, I guess. "Thanks."

There's a haunted look in his eyes, and I hate it. I really wish they didn't remember everything. Something really, really bad happened--something after I died. I just wish they'd tell me what it was! I can tell Winston wants me to hold off with all my questions--give Peter and Egon time to figure out I'm okay--but I don't think I can stand to see them running away from each other like this.

"I'm... just glad you're back, Ray."

"Well actually," Winston's drawl is amused, but there's a little bit of steel in it that makes me wonder what Egon did--or will have done--to make  _him_  angry. "It's us that's back."

Peter waves his hand carelessly, but he's got that haunted look, too. "Whatever."

"Still," I persist, "you guys did all that, just to save my life!"

It's the wrong thing to say--I don't know why, but it is. Peter's got this look like he's going to cry again, and Egon... He's got a wall up. Like a Peter wall. His hand squeezing my shoulder is shaking, and I have to let him go. He needs time.

I almost chuckle, though I'm far from happy with the way things are going. He's had time! Five years worth.

"Five years..."

"It's a long time, homeboy," Winston tells me. "A real long time." There's a shadow in his eyes, too, but I can tell that it's mostly for the other two. He's pretty psyched I'm home--well, he's right, _they're_  home, not me--and that's all he has to know. Something came up between him and Egon, too, but Winston's obviously decided to let it go for now, to just enjoy the four of us being together. Sometimes I think Peter and Egon are too complicated for their own good. We're all back where we belong. Why push it?

But Peter seems to want to. "Too long." His voice is almost hard, and I'm suddenly remembering the first time I met him, the first time Egon  _let_  me meet him. Man, he was cold. Egon and I were already starting to be friends, and it was like I was this intruder, coming in to take over. I knew that was why Egon put off introducing us--I think he was afraid Peter would hurt my feelings. He sort of did, but what bothered me was that, even after he'd decided I wasn't there to steal his best friend, it just took so long for him to warm up to me. I thought I'd never be  _his_  friend at all.

And now I'm not any more.

Of course! Wow, sometimes I'm really stupid. As far as he's concerned, I left five years ago. He's got more abandonment issues than  _I_  do, and probably with better reason. I mean, my parents didn't live to ignore me like his dad did, they just...

"Peter, I'm sorry."

He looks up at me in confusion, but he's shutting down again. Putting up that wall with the big sign saying  _Get out and stay out till I'm good and ready to talk--which may be never._  God, I hate that. He hasn't done that to me... In at least five years, his time, right? "For what?"

Winston is so great. He can't stand to let me out of his sight and I know he didn't want me to bring this up tonight, but he's getting up now as Peter's tone sets off warning bells. This is between Peter and me. I figure I'll have to do the same with Egon, but at least Winston and I are okay.

"I better check... something."

I smile at his ungraceful exit, hearing him head upstairs, but Peter's just looking at me like he can't figure me out. Me! He knows me better than anyone else in the world. Why can't he see what I'm trying to say?

"I'm sorry for dying." Simple. Quick. Hopefully, it'll be enough.

He shrugs coldly. "Not like you meant to."

"No," I agree, sitting beside him. I don't want the table between us as we talk. I need him to see me here. "But I still left."

I can see the tears forming, but he isn't going to let them fall. "It's okay," he says, not meaning it  _at all_. "At least we're all back where we belong."

I nod. But we're not back  _like_  we belong. "Do you forgive me?"

That's the right thing to say. I know it. I'm almost frightened by the pain in his eyes as they meet mine, but I just have to imagine what he's been through in the last five years--the last three hours, as far as I'm concerned--and I know why he's hurting. God! I don't know if  _I_  could have made it without  _him_  for so long. And he didn't even have Egon...

"Ray..." He's breathing hard, trying not to cry. But I think if I can get him to do it, he'll feel better. Watching him shake, I suddenly flash back to my eleventh birthday. Aunt Lois had bought me a stuffed kitten. I know--I even knew at the time--that she was only trying to help, trying to make me feel better. But I had asked Mom for a kitten only six months before--three days before she died. And she had said no. Oh, I knew I could change her mind. I knew I could wear her down, 'cause that was what I did best. Grinned and acted cute and begged until she couldn't help but give in.

The night of my eleventh birthday, alone in my room, I had systematically pulled the doll apart. It was a symbol of Mom. And I hated her so much for not giving me the chance to change her mind that I couldn't stand to look at it.

Peter's that angry at me now. He's that angry, but  _he_  has the chance I never got--he has a chance to say it to my face.

I just don't know if I can make him.

"Do you forgive me?" I repeat, holding my breath.

"No!" Peter is on his feet, and it's like he's trying to run away but his body won't let him. He's standing there, back to me, and I know he's still trying not to cry.

Come on, Peter, please. Cry!

"You left us... You  _destroyed_  us... You destroyed  _us_!"

His voice isn't more than a whisper, but I bet you could hear the pain in New Jersey. Gosh...

"I'm sorry." It's all I can say. Saying I didn't mean to leave him, or I won't leave him ever again isn't going to do anything. I can't promise not to leave. I can't make the last five years of his life disappear. I really wish I could, but it just can't happen. "I just... want you to forgive me."

He turns on me, and I think this is the first time I've actually been scared of him in my life. He's so mad, I don't think he can see any straighter than Egon can right now. "Do you know what you did!?"

"Peter, I--"

"NO!" I have to stand, because he's coming at me now. I know he's mad, and scared, and hurting, and I know I have to stand my ground, but...

"Do you know what you did!?"

"No," I reply as calmly as I can, willing my legs to stop shaking. "Because you and Egon won't tell me."

Somehow that did it. Something's broken, and I couldn't be happier. With a desperate sob, Peter has fallen back into one of the chairs, and tears are finally streaming down his face. "I couldn't..." He can't talk through his tears, so I give him a minute. I think I know what he's going to say. After all, he didn't have to yell and get the six's attention. He didn't have to make himself a target...

Unless he didn't think of it the first time.

"I couldn't catch you, Ray! I tried to get to you, but... you were so  _far away_!"

I can't stand it. Walking over, I try to cuddle his head against me, and he latches on to me like a vise. He's shaking so hard! Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he shouldn't cry. Maybe he can't take it. Maybe...

"It wasn't your fault, Peter." Stupid thing to say, but I don't think Peter's seeing much in the way of subtleties right now. "I saw how fast the ghost came this time..." I swallow in memory. "It almost got you instead."

"I wouldn't have cared."

There's a lot more to that statement than just five years of pain, and I didn't think I had it in me to get mad at him, not when he's hurting like this. But, damnit--

" _I_  would have! And so would Egon and Winston!"

I barely catch his response. "Two out of three ain't bad."

"What?" I reach down, pulling his chin up so he's looking at me. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

His eyes are so desperate! "It was my fault, Ray! I... I just wasn't..." He's tired. God, I wish I didn't have to see them all so tired. I let his head drop again, which is stupid, because I can't see his face when he whispers, "Egon knows that, even if Winston won't admit it."

I can't breathe. This is so  _stupid!_  Peter thinks it's his fault, and I could see earlier that Egon thinks it's  _his_. How is it that Winston is the  _only_  smart one in this bunch? If I froze the first time like I did today, I don't think anyone could have stopped what happened. Winston knows that. I can tell by the way he's just sort of decided to be tickled we're all back together.

But Egon and Peter are  _still_  tearing themselves up over this. After five years! And I suddenly wonder whether either of them knows the other is doing it...

"Egon knows he couldn't save me, either."

I can almost see the light bulb. Gosh, my fostermom  _was_  right. Brains just make you stupider.

"How could it be his fault?"

"Peter!" I try to stamp down on my exasperation. "How could it be yours?"

"But--but I shouldn't have gotten so far away from you! If I'd been closer--"

"Egon and Winston would have lost both of us, and we wouldn't be having this conversation." I let my irritation show just a little. "Peter, we've pulled that kind of move a thousand times. It works."

"Mostly." Okay. Sarcasm. Not much, but still a good sign. Now, to the important stuff...

"So, what happened... when I died?"

He snorts painfully and when he speaks his voice is cold, but he still won't let go of me. "We buried you. In Morrisville. With your parents."

I can't stop the bizarre rush of fear and joy that thought brings, but I don't have time for it, either. I could tell, from what little I got out of Winston, that whatever happened after my death pretty much killed these two, and I don't think it did him much good either. He had this sad look in his eyes when we talked, like he'd spent the last five years not knowing whether to kill them or hug them.

I know the sentiment, because I have that feeling right now. But I have to make this right again--I'm the only one who can.

I hope.

"After that," I push gently.

"I... I ran away." The admission takes a lot out of him, and his grip on me loosens a little bit. "Egon... once he was better--hell, even before he was better... It was like, every time he saw me, he saw you die, and..."

"And you were afraid to talk to him, right?" How did I get two such complete idiots for friends? I used to think I'd picked the smartest guys at Columbia! "Peter, I'm sure if you'd just tried..."

"I wouldn't let him."

I didn't hear Egon come in. I guess he's been there a while, though, cause I know when I turn around, I'll see tears in his eyes to match the ones in his voice. Good. At least I won't have to have this talk twice. It's really exhausting.

"Because you didn't want him to blame you," I say as he walks forward. I'm not asking. I already know the answer. See I'm usually the resident expert in the blame department. Thought I was the best, too...

Egon's around the table, his hand squeezing Peter's shoulder before Peter can flinch. "If I hadn't hesitated, Ray..." he begins, sounding like he's waiting for Peter to agree with him. I can see Peter's mouth open, but it sure ain't gonna be blame for Egon coming out of it--

"Both of you  _shut up_!" What's the line:  _that's all I can stands, I can't stands no more_? "I think I'm glad I died--at least I didn't have to listen to you two being so  _stupid!_ "

Well, they're looking at each other, Ray. They think you're nuts, but they're looking at each other.

"I'm going to say this once: Neither of you was to blame for what happened the first time.  _This time_ , though, both of you  _did_  save my life. Egon, you worked for five years, believing you could stop me dying. Peter, you almost got clobbered yourself making sure I didn't." I've got my hands on my hips, and I probably look ridiculous, but I don't care. I don't  _want_  this anymore! "If you saved my life just so I could see how your friendship fell apart over stupid guilt in the last five years, then I think maybe you should never have bothered!"

Wow. Didn't know they could make me so mad.

"Raymond..." Egon's hand hasn't left Peter's shoulder, and I wonder if Peter realizes how much of a bruise he's going to have there. "When you died... There was... a hole. Something that was never going to fill. ...Nothing was ever the same." He looks at Peter with so much pain--and  _fear_ \--that I don't know how he's ever going to get over this. A shudder runs through me as I wonder whether they've both changed so much that there's no going back. Of course, there has to be. There has to be or I wouldn't be here in the first place.

"And I know it's going to take a lot for it to be the same again, Egon," I whisper. "Honest." Why did they have to remember!? Why couldn't they have just come back and saved me and this would all be over? I can't believe this can't be fixed. I won't believe it! They came back to get me, but I  _know_  they came back to get themselves, too--because I'm not a whole lot of good without  _us_... I don't want these stupid tears--I don't even really deserve them, since I didn't even know I died until they told me. But...

"But why does coming back to change it have to lead to the same result?"

My question is quiet, mostly from the rising lump in my throat, but I want to know. I really, really do. If Egon figured all that out, and Peter almost died trying to make sure we all stayed together, then what's the point if I'm going to lose all the good stuff anyway?

There's a long minute of silence while they both stare at me, their eyes softening. I can't let this be their fault. I can't let them make the next five years just like they were the first time. And finally... finally, I see them both realize that.

Slowly, Peter's arms wrap back around me, as Egon reaches out his free hand to clasp mine. Peter's crying, but quietly now. I think he's going to wrap me in cotton so I can never do this to him again. He really hates to cry. "Hey Tex," he whispers tearfully. "When'd you get so smart?"

"About the same time you two got so stupid," I reply easily, ruffling his hair while I lock my gaze on Egon. "Can we just agree that people do dumb things when they're hurting and move on?" I can feel my voice break on those last words, and it wrings a couple of tears from Egon, too. " _Please_?"

Peter sits away from me and turns to him, and I'm crying all over again. And so are they.

"Egon... I didn't mean to leave." Peter's got his back to me, but I can see his remorse mirrored in Egon's eyes.

"I know, Peter. I... didn't mean to let you." There's a spark of their old psychic connection, but it isn't strong and doesn't last more than a few seconds... Just long enough for Egon to actually smile, for the first time since we left that damn warehouse. He seems shocked when Peter's hand briefly grasps his, and his eyes are shining as he looks up at me, but he's not going to cry anymore. Hopefully, none of us are. "I missed you so much, Ray."

So much for vain hope. Peter hugs me again, and Egon isn't far behind. This is better.  _This_ , I can deal with, tears and all. I'm not as naive as Peter sometimes thinks I am--I know this isn't the end of this. I know there's not going to be an end for a while...

But at least now there's a start.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

"I missed you so much, Ray." 

There it is. I can hear it in his voice. God, I thought we'd never get him back. Pete would have come around eventually, but Egon...? Hell, boy might even survive for me to clean his clock over that damn fool plan of his. 

But thank God it worked! 

I crept back down here when I saw Egon heading toward the stairs. I was on the landing, just watching him watching Pete until he finally saw his opening and took it. I could have left--probably should have--but I need this as much as they do, and I don't think even Ray understands how much I want these two back together. Having _Ray_ back is only half this battle and I damn sure don't want to lose it now. 

I slide down the wall to sit on the floor outside the kitchen, sure they haven't heard me over their own welcome home, and it's like the last five years come crashing in on me. I'm shaking like a leaf and laughing and crying all at once. 

I never could deal with the way things were between Pete and Egon. I never thought I'd see the two of them self-destruct so far away from each other--they were the original bosom buddies, always there for each other, no matter what. The fact that neither of them could help the other see past the bust itself meant neither of them could move on and hope to be whole. Egon went to his lab and stayed there, and Peter left because he honestly seemed to think that Egon didn't want him there anymore. 

_I_ wanted them _both_ there, but I was hardly getting a say in their guilt-fest. And I think I've probably always been kind of pissed at both of them for forgetting I was just as hurt as they were. I'm sure they convinced themselves I was coping, doing just fine as I went from one to the other, letting Peter know how Egon was so I could let Egon know how Peter was... It was more like Hell than anything else I've ever known. 

And of course, there was missing Ray. 

I don't think I ever realized how much the kid had gotten under my skin until he was gone. Until I didn't have him to bounce into the garage and help me with my work on Ecto, didn't have him laughing at every joke and sliding in more of his own--many of them a whole lot more savvy than his innocent face makes you think he'd know. You tend to forget he isn't twelve, sometimes... 

My family is tight, but these guys? Peter's my--much younger--twin. My evil twin, Mama likes to say. Egon's that older brother (five months my junior, of course) that never lets you get away unscathed... And Ray's more the little brother I gotta shelter from the world than any egghead white boy has a right to be to me. Losing him hurt worse than all the buddies I lost on the battlefield in Southeast Asia. 

God, I almost didn't make it those first few months. Egon in the hospital with a ruptured everything, trying to scramble back to a life at least halfway worth living. Pete running away--mentally at first, though it was the actually move out that nearly broke me--and Ray just... gone. I've lost too many people in my life, but Ray...? I didn't think I could ever feel that empty, but his death did it. 

And I didn't even have the guys to fall back on. 

But my anger at them is fading pretty quickly now, if it was ever really strong to begin with. They had their own pain to get through, and just because they didn't doesn't mean I should hold it against them now. Because now it's over, just like that. Well, okay, not just like that. Not by a long shot, but at least the healing's started. 

And Ray did it, like I knew he could. Ray fixed everything I couldn't. Even me. I stifle a laugh--a pure laugh of freedom--as I realize that, all those years, I was right. Only Ray could fix them. Only Ray could kick those two over-brained nuts into seeing the forest for the trees. It's not my fault I couldn't heal their wounds, because the wounds were always about Ray, and whether either one of them ever thought he would have forgiven them. 

And of course, he doesn't even think it's their fault. I could have told them that--hell, I _did_ tell them that--but it was only going to matter coming from Ray. 

He's forgiven them. Now they just need to forgive themselves--and each other. And I'll tie them both to chairs and beat them with the truth until they do. So help me God! 

And then... Egon and me are going to have a little talk. 

Somehow, _these_ tears seem more like peace than anything in the last five years. 

* * * 

You know, after five years of constant insomnia, you'd think I'd want to sleep for a week. But here it is, 5:00 a.m., and I'm up. I'm never up at dawn. I actually kind of hate dawn. But today... Today is different. It's the 1828th day of my life since Ray died, and he's snoring away in the bed across from mine. 

Dawn is a wonderful time. 

Too bad I feel like a truck hit me. A truck with fangs and claws and... Okay, Peter, putting that thought away for another time. 

It hurts to sit up, hurts to turn my head, hurts to breathe, and I couldn't care less about any of it. Because I'm alive and so is Ray. That's something I wouldn't have predicted yesterday--at least the 1996 version. 

Or the 1991, for that matter. I figured I had one shot last night--don't move Ray, move the ghost. I'd proven the first time that moving Ray was just impossi... Yeah, _impossible_. What, I couldn't have figured that out five years ago!? _That_ was impossible, but pissing off the ghost wasn't. That's not even hard. If the boy scouts had a merit badge for Ghost Irritation, I'd have five. Maybe six if I played my cards right. 

There was, of course, a fatal flaw in this plan. The ghost got one of us the first time, so there was no reason it couldn't get one again. It just was _not_ going to be Ray. He'd have been a whole lot more help to Egon if I bought it than I ever was... 

Speaking of help, or the lack thereof, I heard three different nightmares last night: mine, Egon's, and Egon's. The first time he called for Ray, and I knew that nightmare. He'd had it so many times before I left the firehouse, I had it memorized, every last frame... The second call was for me, and that one I can just imagine, given the stunt he pulled to get us all back here. I want to be mad at him for that, but it was only what I deserved--no matter what Ray said last night. 

I didn't wake Egon either time, just watched him sit bolt upright, his gaze going unsteadily to one or the other of us in the dark. I wish now that I'd said something, but there wasn't anything for me to say. Okay, that's a lie. There's plenty to say... just no one who wants to listen. I miss him. I've been missing him for so long that it's like looking at a stranger every time I see him. Like my brain just can't explain his being here. 

I don't have that kind of problem with Ray. God, I can see him all too clearly. But Egon... I hurt him so much when I left. I just don't think he's going to forgive me for that, and that might end up killing me as surely as that six last night could have. 

My nightmare, you ask? Pretty standard. Ray dies, Egon almost dies, we fight, Egon breaks my jaw, I leave, I'm alone. That ball of hell in the warehouse last night does figure rather prominently, of course, but that's only because I had to see him twice. 

More memory than nightmare, huh? And I wonder why I don't sleep. 

It floors me that we all remember so clearly. I meant what I said to Egon five years from now--I feel like I'm in a Douglas Adams novel when I think like that!--I really did want to forget it all. I can remember every single day without them. I can remember what it was like to move out, to scramble to get _someone_ to hire me, to fight my way back out of academic obscurity... ignoring the emotional pain and focusing on the tangible trials, convincing myself that this was the way things happened to everyone. Sooner or later, everyone abandons you and you have to start over. First Ray, then Janine, then Egon... 

Well, Egon didn't _really_ count, because I abandoned him first. 

I was almost glad when he finally gave me a reason to get out. He'd been lying to me for months, or rather, he hadn't been telling the truth. It's a fine distinction that every conman--and every conman's son--knows well. He didn't say much to me during the long months of recovery, but he never once brought up the subject of just why Ray died. Oh sure, little quips here and there, little digs. Just enough to let me know he knew. And I sent it all right back at him, just as subtly, trying to provoke him into telling me the truth. 

And with one colossal blow up, he finally admitted that he knew I was to blame. 

It was just enough to push me out a door I should have walked through right after Ray's funeral. Janine knew I should have been gone, too. But at least she said it to my face. Egon just... stared through me. For the longest time. Once he was truthful, I could go. 

And boy, did I! I left everything--just took off. Things are replaceable, after all. Friends aren't. Once you've destroyed them, they pretty much stay destroyed. 

Unless, of course, one of them is an evil genius bent on building a time machine to fix your fuck ups. And if he figures you have to die to make his plan work? Well, you can live with that--or not. Luckily, I didn't have to face "or not." Well, except for that whole face-full-of-six-head-snapping-off moment, but hey! All in a good cause, right? 

Though now, as I turn my head on a neck that screams in pain, "or not" is sounding pretty good. 

_Anyway_... speaking of my favorite physicist-- _always_ my favorite, even for the last five years--where is he? His bed's already made, but I don't smell coffee... 

I walk into the lab to find it empty, but I stand there for a minute, drinking in the atmosphere. I missed it. I understood when Winston tore it out--he had four rambunctious twentysomethings to share the firehouse with, and he sure as hell didn't have the energy for that. Separate living quarters meant sanity. And keeping the lab when Egon had deserted just didn't make sense, anyway. Spengs got his job at MIT, and his lab there was a hell of a lot better equipped than this one will ever be. 

Still, there's something safe and warm about this place--no matter how many times he and Ray blow it up. 

He and Ray. Gotta love the sound of that! Stop and savor the moment... 

Nice as the lab is, though, it's not what I'm looking for. I can't hear anything from downstairs, so I figure I'll head up. The roof's a great place to watch the sun rise. 

Not that I know this from experience, mind you, but that's what I've heard. 

 

I slip upstairs quietly, and open the door. Five years from now, it will be rusty (will have been rusty, anyway), but now it's as well-oiled as anything Ray gets near, and I can watch unobserved. 

Egon's standing at the edge of the roof, deep in thought as he faces the skyline. He's tired. I wonder if he faked sleep as well as I did for most of last night, because his shoulders are bowed, and he looks like he spent the last five years as sleepless as me. I can't believe I let him go through that alone! He spent a year in and out of the hospital, and I know, but only because Winston told me, that he pulled right back into his shell when I left. 

But I couldn't be there. I couldn't watch him fight back from what he'd been through when he could never look me in the eye for fear of telling me just exactly what he thought of me. I never doubted he cared for me--fifteen plus years of friendship is a lot to contend with. It takes something monumental to shake that kind of relationship. 

In fact, it pretty much takes one of you killing a mutual friend to call the whole thing off. 

And Egon hated me for that. I know what he said last night, and I know what I said last night, but the fact remains. I could see it in his eyes--his eye, anyway. After that first month when he was so out of it I wondered if he was ever going to make it, his anger was pretty obvious. He blamed me for it. Maybe he did blame himself a little, too, but every good psychologist knows survivor guilt when he sees it. He knew whose fault it really was. 

So I waited for him to prove it to me, and left as soon as I could. I think I only stayed before then because I kept wishing he'd lie to me enough to convince me. I kept hoping he'd tell me he was _glad_ I survived, glad he would at least have _me_ to help him through. But he didn't want my help--probably didn't need it, either. Maybe _that's_ a lie, too, because he really did just throw himself into that lab and lock the door, didn't he? Leaving him without having Ray there to make sure he stayed rooted... That was probably the worst part. Worse even than the times he jerked away from me when I tried to help him in those first few months. Worse than the desperate way he used to avoid my eyes... 

Killing the best part of Egon was almost worse than killing Ray. Because Egon still had to live with it. 

But Ray needs this to be over--even more than I need it to be over, and that's saying a lot. He kicked our butts pretty hard last night, and I know he's right. I know we have to move beyond this. We have to make sure that this repeat five years we have doesn't fall apart the second time around. We all risked too much for that to happen. Especially me. I have the bruised ribs to prove it. 

And Egon still loves me. I know he does--I always knew. That wasn't the issue. The issue was always whether the love outweighed the hate. It didn't before, but maybe, with Ray back, it can. I don't think he'll ever really forgive me for what I did the first time, but at least what I did this second time gave him back that best part I killed. Maybe he can _try_ to forget? 

I just wish I knew how to reach him. I wish I remembered how to talk to him. 

God, I wish I didn't remember at all. 

* * * 

I have a headache. It's the best headache I've had in five years, but it is still a headache. It is the most frustrating thing in the world to be unable to focus properly with my glasses perched right on my nose! More frustrating than trying to explain the subtleties of dimensional wave theory to one Peter Venkman. 

Peter. My God, I missed him as much as I missed Raymond--perhaps more in some ways, as I knew he was never more than 300 miles away. And somewhere deep down, I think I realized that he was hurting just as badly as I was. 

But I could never go to him. I don't know how many times I considered it--before I even moved to Cambridge. He was living only twenty minutes away from the firehouse, and I let him stay there, alone. I heard Winston talk to him on the phone for the first time six months after he left us, and I crept back upstairs to my lab, rather than face the thought of talking to him. 

Perhaps my worst fear was not that he would never forgive me, but that he would. That he would tell me it was not my fault. That he would lie to me like that. Peter has never lied to _me_ , not since the very early days of our relationship. And I knew that his absolution would be a lie of monumental proportions. 

And I knew that he would tell me that lie, if only so he would not have to be alone. 

So I got angry. Furious. I did not know that I had such a talent for self-deception before, but I managed, with very little effort, to convince myself that _he_ had caused this tragedy. Not Ray's death--that is and was firmly my own sin--but the crumbling of the one friendship that might have allowed me to move beyond that mind-crushing pain. 

And yet, standing here on this roof--our roof--I find I can remember with absolute clarity the moment when _I_ destroyed that friendship forever. I had been in the hospital--again--for another surgery on my useless eye, and had been home no more than a week. It was six months after Ray's death, and Peter made some remark--the remark itself does not stick in my memory, so it must have been slight--about whether he and Winston should think about going back to busting to make sure the bills got paid. I believe he mentioned something about "bringing in some dough." Yes. I believe that phrase is what set me off. What began as a minor disagreement escalated quickly into a vicious shouting match. 

> _"If it were not for your idiotic, money-grubbing ideas, your pointless, counter-productive abuse of the system, Raymond and I would still be safely ensconced at Columbia!"_
> 
> _"Probably wasting away in academic hell--"_
> 
> _"At least he would be alive!"_
> 
> _"If you call that living--"_

And then I had hit him. Even as I struggled to gauge distance and perspective, one eye forever lost to my own folly, I managed to hit him hard enough to crack his jaw and jar loose three teeth. He had had a bridge every since, though, like my eye, that impediment no longer exists. 

I could wish that the impediments to our friendship could melt away so easily. That he could ever forgive me for attempting to lay my own blame at his feet is an unlikely possibility. And I am not sure he should even try. 

He had taken precious moments to recover from my attack. Moments that were marked by Winston's shocked silence and Peter's own gasp of pain. At the time, I barely registered the altered tones of his voice as he spoke around the injury I inflicted. 

> _"Can't say I'm surprised at the sentiment... If that's the way you want it, Spengler. Take the place. It's yours."_

And he was gone. 

I still do not know why I hit him. I see now that I was trying to make him the reason for all of it. If Peter were to blame, I could rest easy. But I haven't. Five years of nightmares and sleepless nights have proven that no amount of denial can clear me of the guilt for my actions. I have spent all this time taking my own pain out on Peter, and all I have done is add to his. 

I want to blame him for leaving, but I could not even then, and, after what I heard last night, I realize that I have only made his heavy burden heavier. I wish I could believe that he might forgive me for this, but I am no longer such a believer in human nature. Particularly where Peter is concerned. 

As sharp as my memory of the day he left is, so sharp is my memory of the day I met him. He was a caricature of his real self. Overly egotistical, overly cheery, overly confident. He is--or was--all these things and more. Caring, heroic, thoughtful, intelligent... But his life, his father, his history had so blinded him to the good in people that he rebuffed my first attempts at friendship. Perhaps I truly saw something in him that he did not know was there. 

That he knew it, more than fifteen years later, and must have felt that part of him slip away--that he must have consciously reconstructed those walls around himself--is yet another thing I cannot forgive myself for. Not even Ray's return can cleanse that particular sin. 

No more than it can cleanse the sin of sacrificing him to save the past. 

Yesterday's terror comes back to me clearly, and I shiver in the pre-dawn light. I took an unconscionable risk. That I could risk his life on less than 50 percent odds--even to save Raymond-- If Peter had died... after everything I _haven't_ said in the last five years... 

I cannot hide from him anymore--no matter the price in his rejection. If we are to be colleagues alone, so be it. If that is all he will allow-- _truthfully_. 

"Hey, Egon? How's New York, circa 1991?" Peter's voice holds none of the levity it might have if the last five years had never happened. Perhaps there will be truth, after all. 

"Much better than the first time around." Again, the lightness is missing. At least we both remember the words. 

"You can say that again..." 

I can feel him behind me, but he won't approach. And I cannot remember how to make him do so. 

"So... what are you doing up so early?" 

"I could ask the same question. Unless you have changed considerably in the last five years, dawn is hardly your favorite time of day." I freeze. A part of me yearns for him to play the game. I want him to lie to me, to pretend that we are still something more than simple acquaintances. Something that was so deep, my mother jokingly called us two parts of the same brain. 

But I am terrified. By both the possibility of his acceptance, and the agony of his rejection. 

Peter seems to understand my fear, and I strain not to flinch as he places a careful hand on my shoulder. "Nah," he confirms, a shadow of our old banter that I cling to desperately. "Midnight's more my speed." 

My desperation mutates unexpectedly. "As I recall, you were up at midnight, as well." I evade his gaze, anger in my voice as I speak, remembering the slitted green eyes that met mine fractionally when I woke from my second nightmare of the night. I cannot express how much I wished he would speak to me, as I sat in the dark, still half-believing I had lost him. Perhaps I truly have. Perhaps all we will have left now is this shadow we are currently playing at. 

The silence becomes deafening rather quickly. I remember a time when we could stand side by side companionably, without words to bridge the gaps. I long for words, right now. 

Finally, Peter supplies them, in a way that sends a shock through me. "I thought we made a deal with Ray, Spengs." 

I feel so much joy at the use of his nickname for me--a name too many years done without. 

"Peter, I--" 

A crushing grip on my shoulder, almost loving in its pressure, stops me. "We were both hurting, Egon, and it never should have happened like it did," he whispers, and I hear a hint of tears in his voice. "I just could never... face you." 

I face him now, thinking to see anger or condemnation. All I see is the guilt that I have glimpsed in my own face since that bust, the guilt that I saw in his eyes last night and was unable to process. How could he have been at fault? I saw him--saw his stream shoot toward the ghost with unerring accuracy. Had my own been there to greet his, we would never have been through this hell. 

Yet he blames himself, and I see something frightening and unreadable in his eyes... Surely he can't think _I_ blamed him as well? Can he? It hits me like a full force stream. Of course he can. Have I given him any reason to believe differently? I drove him away with that, after all. I made it his fault... 

"Peter... I never truly believed it was your fault," I tell him firmly, placing a hand over his on my shoulder. "I simply... could not face the guilt myself." His eyes are soft, but there is a wariness in them that I do not think I can overcome. "It was simply..." 

"Easier to blame me." 

I know my eyes are stricken as they rise to meet his. Oh, God, Peter! How could I have done this to you? I watch the wariness turn almost to stone, and cringe. I really have lost him now... I've lost everything. 

Again. 

But at my cringe, or perhaps the look on my face, something suddenly begins to melt away that hardness he's cloaked himself in. His tears spill over, and I can almost feel his thoughts tingling toward me as they did so often in the first sixteen years of our acquaintance. My God, he's been afraid. Of me--of _my_ condemnation of _him_! Fresh guilt washes over me and I find myself unable to breathe for a moment as I stare at the ground between us. 

Peter's fingers on my chin are warm and I ache with the remembrance of so many times that his physical presence has soothed me. He guides my face up, his tenderness forcing me to meet his eyes. "I know you won't believe me, Spengs, but I couldn't have blamed you either." His sigh is something close to a sob and he is shaking now, trying to see past the lie I have been telling him for so many years. Please, Peter, I beg, willing my thoughts toward him. Please see that I do not blame you. See that I blame myself so much more... 

"I love you, Egon. You know that." 

"I..." 

Again, nothing fills the void of my shock. Not that he loved me then--Peter's love was never an issue before--but that he _still_ loves me. After everything I've done. And yet, I can see it in his eyes. He isn't lying to me. He truly doesn't blame me--never blamed me. 

Never hated me? 

"I missed you, Peter," I whisper desperately as I embrace him, praying that I have read him correctly after all these years apart. "I missed you so much!" The tightening of his arms around me, the hitch in his breathing tell the tale, and I feel something melt that I had not even known was still alive in me. 

"I'm sorry, Egon," he whispers brokenly. I steel myself to refute his guilt. "I didn't... I should never have left you to deal with this alone." Ah, not guilt for Ray then. Guilt for me--and for himself. "I just thought..." His breath catches again. "I couldn't stand to remind you of what I did." 

"Peter, you didn't do anything." Please believe me. 

His voice is soft and defeated. "Maybe not... but I left." 

Yes... He left. He left me to lead a life I had never thought worth living. A life punctuated by losses too horrible to contemplate--his loss being one of two that did not allow me to carry on. His departure was as much my own fault as his, the loss a pain of my own making. Yet this rift seems repairable now, in a way it did not just a few short minutes ago. As his embrace on me tightens, I feel his tears soaking through my shirt, and I cannot help but believe the unbelievable. 

I will have my family back. 

"You know," he says after a few moments, his voice muffled by my shoulder. "I think that's the first time _I_ ever got to leave first." I can feel his shaky laughter. "Somehow I thought it would feel better from the other side." 

"The fact that it did not will, I hope, prevent you from ever doing it again." My own tears ruin the stern tone, but I cannot seem to care, just now. 

"You got it, Spengs. No leaving." His voice is very small, as he whispers, "But I would have. If I had to." 

It takes me a moment to puzzle out his statement, but I pull back to look into his eyes when I do. "You knew?" 

He smiles sadly. "Five years isn't _that_ long, Egon... I figured it was worth the risk." My heart breaks again at his quiet addition. "Would have been karmic justice." 

"No, it most certainly would _not_!" I take a deep breath, self-loathing re-filling the tear in my heart. "Peter, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I would like to say that it was simply my drive to save Raymond--" 

"We made a promise, Spengs. Remember?" There is a wealth of compassion and forgiveness in his eyes that I still find myself wholly unprepared to accept. But the fear that I will not is there too, and I realize that, the last five years notwithstanding, I would still do anything for this, my dearest friend. 

"Indeed," I concur, feeling a pain melt away. My head still aches, but my heart is finally healing. "And it would not do to break a promise made to him." 

Peter's second short hug strengthens me. "Not after everything we went through to get him back, it wouldn't." 

The thought warms me, as does the knowledge that Ray will be alive, and probably awake, when Peter and I finally walk downstairs together. And perhaps it is selfish, but saving Raymond's life did not restore my soul. 

Saving my own has. 

* * * 

I couldn't think of anything else to say to Egon, and he didn't seem to be able to muster anything for me, either. Five years of guilt is a lot to just throw off, but I like to think that the hour or so we've spent on this roof has helped to start us healing. We've just been kind of sitting, watching the sun rise... being together. Now, as we walk downstairs, into the smell of bacon and the special pancakes Winston hasn't made in years, I can almost let myself believe we'll be together forever. 

This time. 

Last night was for show, I think. Not that we both didn't mean what we said, but... Somehow, I knew we hadn't said enough. I know this latest catharsis isn't enough, either, but at least I got to see him look me in the eyes for the first time in what seems like a lifetime. 

It's something I could really get used to again. 

Winston and Ray are laughing in the kitchen, and I don't remember ever hearing a better sound. They look up as we come in, and I can see them both trying to gauge our moods. Egon stands beside me, a faint, tired smile on his face, and I bet I look like I just won the lottery but don't have a clue what that means. I don't want to let him out of my sight anymore than I do Ray, right now. I'm sort of afraid that he'll disappear on me. Or I'll disappear on him. Either way, now I've got him back, I'm never letting go--no matter what happens. 

Obviously they see my determination, because they share a little smile, and Ray bounces once. My lips break with an unaccustomed smile. Our own personal energizer bunny. Back in the flesh. 

"So, Peter!” Ray's grinning, so normal and so _alive_ I just want to hug him. "What are we doing for the big four-oh?" 

No hug for you! "I have to turn FORTY again!?" 

"Not the years, homeboy," Winston jeers pleasantly. "It's the mileage." 

"I'd better get a tune-up then." At least _this_ time, I get to celebrate with Ray. Hell I'd turn forty at least--okay, maybe only twice. I don't think I love even _Ray_ that much. 

"Don't worry, Peter," Ray promises, the devil in those innocent brown eyes. "We'll go easy on you." 

"An occurrence that would truly be unprecedented in the annals of this group," Egon puts in dryly. I feel like I'm feeling out his sense of humor all over again. Not the worst thing I've ever been through. Not by a long shot. 

"Can't be worse than your 40th, Egon," Winston puts in. He's almost back to normal, but there's a shadow in his eyes when he talks to Egon. I wonder when _that_ particular discussion will be had? I know he suspects that our mad scientist was less than truthful about the chances of our "success" in this psychotic little scheme. And I for one don't see him letting it go without comment. 

Loud comment. Ear-splitting, actually. 

But now is not the time, not with Ray bouncing up and down like that. Winston will let us all calm down and enjoy this second chance of ours for a while. Then, Egon had better watch out. 

"I don't think we need to resort to dancing girls for me, guys," I tell them blithely. "Although that one girl..." I nudge Egon playfully, thrilled when he blushes and blusters in jest. This so like us, I shiver. "What was her name, Spengs? Candy?" 

"Windy," he corrects, straightening his glasses. That shade of pink is really unbecoming on him. I've seen him wear pink, but on his face? Not a pretty picture. 

I love it! 

"Windy, yeah... Nice curves on that one." 

"Too bad she only had eyes for Egon," Ray remarks happily. Ray happy. Damn! I... I can't believe it. I just want to sit here forever and watch him. All that anger I built up at him washed right away when I hugged him last night, and I think he knew just what to say to make that happen. Maybe he and I should take a little walk down memory lane... Like back to when he was ten, maybe? I haven't hung out my shingle in a long time, and it wouldn't do to get rusty now. Hope Egon's been practicing his cocoa skills. 

"And Egon," Ray asks, a smile still on his face as he seems determined to draw Spengs out as well. " _Why_ did you cut your hair?" Winston's obviously been spending his morning filling Ray in on the more embarrassing bits of our future five years. Hope he didn't remember that incident with the succubus... 

"I always wanted to know that one, too," I agree, sharing a companionable smile with Winston as I sit down in front of way too much food. Winston cooks when he's happy. We all love happy, don't we? 

Egon's at a loss, and I almost chuckle. God, I missed him! 

"I... simply did, Raymond." He's trying to come up with a better answer, but I don't think even _he_ knows why he did it. Hell, who knows why either of us did anything after the bust? 

"Winston said you looked funny." 

Okay, Ray is enjoying this way too much. Nah! Nothing is way too much for this kid right now. Hell, I'd even let him blow up the lab today, if he wanted to. Wouldn't even gripe. I don't think I've so much as _held_ a fire extinguisher since... 

"Winston said...?" Egon's going to get him but good for that one. Of course, if I had ever talked to him, I would have told him what Winston said, too. 

"Just telling it like it is, homeboy." He's beaming. He's so damned happy to have Ray back, he's even risking Egon's payback to get the laugh. 

And I tell you, Egon could make Abraham Lincoln look casual, sometimes. He draws himself up with more poise than anyone else I've ever known, and lets fly with pure haught. "Winston would do well to remember that I know more about him and his secretary than is healthy for him." 

Wow. Never seen _that_ particular shade of brown before. 

"You dated your secretary?" Ray asks, a smile curling his cheeks. Missed him, too. 

"Well-- I--" 

I can't help this next comment. I mean, come on--Egon left himself wide open! "Yeah, that _never_ happens around here." He's that lovely shade of pink again, and I sit back a moment to admire my handiwork. Still, can't let Winston get off scot-free either. "Always knew there was more between you and Rena than you were saying, Zed. Wasn't she a little young for you? For _me_ , no problem, but come on, old man--" 

I love being home. Even having eggs thrown at you seems like fun. 

"Peeeeter! Morning!" 

Course, being slimed still sucks. I knew there was _something_ nice about not being in the firehouse. But I'm even happy to have the spud around. At least he doesn't scream and hide when I'm in the room. Gotta remember to never turn a thrower on that ghost. Hell, I think I even missed him! 

Though that hiding from me might not be a bad thing. Then I wouldn't have to burn this tee shirt. 

"So..." Ray wants to bring something up. He's bursting with it, but he thinks it's going to hurt us. And he doesn't want to hurt us again, after everything we've been through, and he's trying really hard to be good and not push it, but this whole thing is just way too fascinating for him and he _needs_ to puzzle it out... and it is so _great_ to be analyzing him again! 

"Yes, Raymond?" I'm glad to see Spengs is just as ready to hear it as I am. He's got that smile that I always thought was sort of patronizing when we were in college. Imagine my surprise when I realized he was actually _jealous_ of Ray's enthusiasm. 

"Do you guys remember everything? I mean, like-- _everything_?" 

I flash briefly on the newspaper article that detailed his death, and I can see by the looks on their faces that Egon and Winston are remembering their own suitably distressing images, but none of our deep thoughts can stand in the face of Ray's suddenly downcast look. But he hasn't hurt me, not really. What hurt me was him dying, and now he's here. So short of a black cake on my birthday, he couldn't hurt me if he tried. "Yep!" I tell him brightly, watching the guys recover as he perks up. "Everything. I even remember--" 

HEY! Now _that's_ something I never thought about. Boy, greed will clear out bad memories faster than anything. Another lesson from Charlie. "I'm gonna be rich!" 

Winston's just staring. "Why?" 

"I _knew_ a photographic memory had to be good for something! I can pay off the firehouse on point spread alone! Five years of football scores, guys!" Why aren't they happy? Why isn't Egon happy? He can have all the toys he wants, why isn't he happy? "We'll be rolling in it!" 

Damn. He's clearing his throat. I hate when Spengs does that. 

"If you'll remember, Peter," he begins, straightening his glasses. "Three weeks after... Ray died--" much easier to hear, now that he didn't-- "there was a class four that badly disrupted a game at the Meadowlands. We were... otherwise occupied... and it seriously affected the results of the game." 

"So?" 

"So," Winston says, leaning in to twist the knife, "that means that everything that happened after that won't." 

I'm confused. 

"Hey, yeah!" Ray's bouncing and I'm confused. Not good. Not good at all. "Since we'll be there to stop it this time, nothing after that will be the same! Just like us!" 

Damn damn damn! Oh no! Now with the puppydog face. 

"Besides, Peter, you can't use what you know to make bets. It just wouldn't be right." 

See, now, here's the problem with having Ray back. He makes a much better conscience than the one I was born with ever did. 

That's so great! 

"Hey guys!" 

I think Winston and Egon turn as fast as I do as Janine walks up to stairs. God, she's a sight for sore eyes. There's a tiny part of me that's almost scared of her. I mean, we hardly parted on the best of terms, what with her thinking I killed Ray and blaming me for almost losing Egon and all. 

Visiting him in the hospital was like walking on ice--I always had to figure out when she might be gone, which wasn't often, because she would just glare at me and take off whenever I showed up, which really disturbed Egon--not to mention, me. She literally never said another word to me after we buried Ray. And after I left the firehouse, after _she_ left the firehouse, she just disappeared and I never found her again. 

And it wasn't like I wasn't trying. 

Course it's not like _she_ knows anything went wrong, anyway. But I suddenly realize, as Egon hugs her with more feeling than she understands right now, just exactly what she's meant to me. 

I'm going to give her a great big hug. 

And a raise. 

"Dr. V!" 

My cheek stings, and I suddenly flash back to five days in the future. She has a hell of a slap, that girl. 

Okay, fine--just a hug. She's gonna have to re-earn that raise! 

* * *  
The End


End file.
